Today on my way in to work, the entertainment value – was spectacular. And somewhat confusing.

As I drove under the highway towards my office, I noticed a homeless man in a dirty gray suit carrying a large sign. But it wasn’t the sign that caught my eye – it was the ventriloquist dummy that was on his arm. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the time to slow down and engage this intrepid peformer in a conversation or get a real good look at the sign but I have to say, at least he’s working for his money.

Or was the dummy petitioning for money and the bum merely hanging out with his friend?

And now I am left to wonder, did he tell jokes? Does he proselytize about the end of the world? Is it a born again dummy? I don’t know!

All day I’ve been thinking about the man and his puppet, and I have to say it’s rather ingenious. I mean, it must get pretty lonely out there on the streets, and unlike a dog, you don’t have to feed a puppet. And I am pretty sure the puppet is a great listener, depending on the bum’s ventriloquist skills. Maybe he’s pulled a Tom Hanks in Castaway, and the puppet is like his own volleyball/best friend.

In any case, I don’t want to sound heartless and crass, but it really does cause someone to do a double take when you see a man dressed in an old dirty suit carrying a giant placard and a very sad looking ventriloquist dummy.

I mean, not for nothing, but Jeff Dunham may want to take note. If he’s not careful and blows all his puppet cash on hookers and blow, it could be him shuffling through the Miami streets, mumbling and arguing with a dirty puppet.

When people think of Miami, they think of the following: Crocket and his alligator, Art Deco, cocaine, thongs, Pit Bull, beaches, palm trees, fruity drinks with umbrellas, fancy cars, South Beach. In short – it’s a gorgeous, sunny paradise full of perky butts, cold drinks, rollerblades and beaches. And some of that is verytrue.

But I work in a very different part of Miami, the part of Miami where work gets done. Where the streets smell of urine and weed. Where people get arrested.

Yesterday morning on my way in to work, I was groggily sipping my coffee at a stoplight, contemplating how I was going to change lanes once the light turned green, when I noticed up ahead – right past the light – a police cruiser pulled up onto the curb. Tires screeching and blue lights flashing.

Ooooh! Now my interest was piqued! What, praytell, is happening? And how the HELL am I going to get around this police car so I can get to work.

The light changed, and of course nobody lets me change lanes to get around the police car, but the show has just started.

Because another police car pulls up and that’s when I see it. A man, with his pants around his ankles, is the cause of all this commotion. He’s jumping up and down, squatting, bending over and then jumping up and down again. Like a strange, real-life .gif. Just repeating the same motions over and over again.

And as I’m sitting there watching him, I have the following inner dialogue with myself:

Ohmygod! Is he wearing underwear?

Well if he’s not, I don’t want to SEE that!

But is he?

Why do I care?

I don’t care, but I bet he’s not even wearing underwear.

Oh dear god, please don’t let me see peen this early the morning!

Is that his peen?

Why WHY is he doing that?

Does he have to poop?

OHMYGOD WHAT IF HE POOPS and I see it!

I don’t want to see poop!

What a crazy story that would be, if he took a big dump right now.

It’s right about here, where the fear of the poop sighting has set in, that I see the officers emerge from their vehicles. They’re snapping on blue latex gloves and then all I can think,

“Officers, those gloves are not enough. Definitely, not gonna be enough.”

I knew I was in trouble when I turned 13. I knew, that from here on out – things would be different. Soon, I’d have to resort to wrapping my feet in paper grocery bags.

I was no longer a size 10, I’d grown into a size 11. And Burdines did not carry any 11’s.

Of course, I knew this day was coming. I’d known since I was 10 years old and in the fifth grade. My mother let me wear her white sandals to school, since they matched my pink and white polka dot shorts so well (don’t judge, it was the eighties). I was SO excited to be wearing grown up shoes! I practically skipped everywhere I went, leading with the bright white strappy sandals, tra la la! Aren’t I special?! These are my MOM’S shoes?!

At the time I hadn’t realized how utterly FREAKISH it was for a child to be able to wear her Mom’s shoes.

Cut to a few days later and I can hear my mother shrieking from her closet, “OHMYGOD! What did you do to my shoes!”

She came charging down the hallway, shaking her shoe at me. “LOOK! YOU STRETCHED THEM OUT! What were you doing in them?!” She was so upset with me and I was horrified I’d ruined her shoes. You see, my Mom is a tomboy. She exists in cut-off shorts, t shirts and flip flops. Honestly, as far as fashion goes? I was screwed from the very beginning.

So I’d stretched out her shoes and I was mortified. I loved those shoes! And now she’d never let me wear them again!

“I didn’t do anything Mom! I swear I just went to school! I’m sorry.”

My mother placed one hand on her hip and looked at me and sighed. “Well, I guess your feet have just gotten way too big. We can’t share shoes anymore.” She shrugged.

I had stretched out my mother’s size 9.5 shoes. At ten years old. I was Sasquatch.

So at 13, we’re wandering through the mall and getting nowhere. I’d stopped looking at the shoe selection at this point – it was no use. I simply walked right up to the sales lady and asked, “What’s the largest size you carry?”

“10”

That’s the largest size you could get in a department store at the time. A size 10. I was horrified! I am going into high school! How am I going to make it through my high school years with a size 11 foot!

One shoe store attendant offered to measure my foot, she was a nice older lady who must have taken pity on such a sad looking frumpy thirteen year old.

“Well,” my new friend said, “you’re not QUITE an 11, yet. The problem is your feet are so WIDE! But, I think I can find a shoe for you in a 10 Wide that just might work.”

Great, so my feet are giant and wide and basically – I’m a beast.

So finally, we managed to find the ugliest pair of white shoes in the store, but they fit.

And let me clarify – these shoes are not ugly because of the size. No – these shoes are ugly because of the year this story is taking place: 1991. Basically the year fashion took a nap.

I would get there eventually, a solid size 11. My sophomore year proved to be the year that I’d fully grow into a size 11. But by that time, I’d looked around. We found a store that specialized in larger sizes, the only problem was they were expensive. And the only store I could shop in that didnt sell sneakers.

And when I graduated high school? I had settled into a fully developed size 12 foot.

My giant expanding feet never escaped the attention of my peers though. I was taunted by the rather amateurish taunts of “Bigfoot,” “Sasquatch,” “Giant.” None were creative, all were cruel. But I couldn’t deny it. My feet were huge.

I’ve spent a lifetime of trying to finding the perfect shoe, ever since I sat in a Stride Rite and watched the surprise of a cocked eyebrow as the shoe attendant measured my enormous toddler feet. I had NO IDEA back them I was on a path to always wanting, never having.

Because you see, I can never be Sarah Jessica Parker with a closet full of shoes. Sure, I can hit Payless and endure the blisters and stinky feet. And I do, on the regular. But I can’t shop at 9 West and squeal over “such a deal!” And the DWS commercials are a cruel taunt. “Where’d you get those shoes?” is there ad campaign. I’ll tell you, where. I’m at Nordstrom, dropping $250 on a gorgeous pair of leather pumps and squirreling them away to my home while I pet them while purring like Gollum “My Precious!!!!!!”

Nordstrom is my goldmine for shoe shopping. And the internet, but shoe shopping on the internet is like dating on the internet. The picture sometimes doesn’t represent the product, and you can get blisters

I wish I could tell that little 13 year old to just hang in there, in a few years we’ll have the newfangled thing called “The internet” and you can buy any shoe in the world you want, if it’s in your size.

On the one hand I absolutely love it. Who doesnt love watching young people act ridiculous – especially the privileged? But on the other hand, I feel awful for the kid. (Yes, he’s a kid. At 36, I get to call anyone in their twenties “kid”)

My friends and I have a pretty good facebook understanding. Some of us work in positions that are delicate, so there are no drunk photos, photos of us vomiting on each other, photos of us swimming naked in the Sea of Gaililea (I’m looking at YOU young Republicans) – and CERTAINLY nobody is playing strip pool. Admittedly, NONE of us are rocking young nubile bodies anymore but still – ew. (Again, looking at YOU young Republicans – okay I am actually trying to UNSEE that).

We call it “the facebook rule.” We dont “Check-In” and we dont post embarrassing photos. I also have a very strict “No double chin” policy when it comes to photos. That may not be relevant to this particular conversation, but I believe in kindness and paying it forward so I am including it here. Trust, your friends will appreciate it.

Having said all that, I feel bad for Prince Harry. Yeah, he’s a prince and privileged and all that – I get it. Life is easier – but is it kinder? Is life fuller?

If you cant trust your friends NOT to take naked photos of you and then SELL THEM, do you have any friends? Because in that group of naked coeds in his hotel room, there HAD to be a couple of close confidants who knew JUST KNEW they should have confiscated telephones before the underwear came off. Perhaps at the beginning of the night. I have enough experience with trying to take undetected cell phone pics of people in Wal-Mart that it’s a difficult endeavor to do so and unnoticed. Let’s face it, those pics were well lit and pretty clear. THEY HAD TO KNOW SOMEONE WAS TAKING PICTURES! And nobody blinked an eye. His friends, at least one of them, should have known and done something about it. Someone in his inner circle allowed it to happen, or actively participated in it. And that sucks.

It must be very lonely living a life like that. Never trusting anyone, always suspecting someone may be just waiting for lucrative moment to sell. To have lawyers travel with you, to have your sexual partners sign “confidentiality agreements” before you can even kiss them, lest they sell the tale a-la a Hooters Waitresses banging Ashton Kutcher. And let’s face it, Prince Harry is a lot more likeable than the Kutch. (Pronounced “Kootch”).

In short, I feel bad for the guy. He’s young, he’s having fun and not doing anything different than other drunk 20 somethings I know.

Of course, there is an easier solution to all of this: Keep your clothes on. But in Vegas? Everything is optional, including pants.